Knowing
by onheavensdoor
Summary: Juice knows a lot about Chibs.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHORS NOTE:** This is my first fanfic in a long time, concrit would be awesome :)

Juice knows it takes six scotch's, four beers and two tequilas for Chibs' arm to start creeping around his shoulders, for those calloused fingertips to begin messing with his shaven hair, to trace the tattoos that adorn his skull. Juice knows if he gasps quietly and fidgets slightly as he downs his beer, those fingertips will eventually absently trickle over his neck and flutter over that sensitive spot Chibs recently discovered just behind Juice's ear.

Juice knows it takes another two tequilas for the older man to start finding every and any excuse to pull Juice close, to lower his tone to that dark Glaswegian growl and laden every word with innuendo and dirty promises. Juice knows that despite being under the gaze of the crew, he won't protest, he won't resist the attention. Juice knows all he'll do is direct that crooked grin of his at Chibs and attempt to suppress the shudders that roll over his body with every flick of those lips against the shell of his ear.

Juice knows the Scot likes to tease. He knows Chibs likes to play dirty, to work him up with light touches and filthy words until he's all but squirming on his bar stool. But Juice knows how to provoke the older man, how to move this along. Juice knows Chibs will watch every single time he puts his beer bottle slowly to his lips, he knows he'll practically be able to feel the other man's eyes burning into his skin as his adam's apple bobs with each swallow. Juice knows Chibs will have great difficulty not following the line of his hips, not stare as his shirt and cut ride up his stomach as he stretches across the bar for more tequila. Juice knows one flash of his particular brand of boyish grin will have the Glaswegian reaching for the nearest spirit.

Juice knows that a further shot of tequila or absinthe or whatever is closest will have the Scot dragging him off to the bathroom under the pretence that "I'm fookin' too drunk ter go alone, Juicy-boy needs ter keep watch so I don't drown in me own piss." Juice knows it's not subtle. Juice knows nothing is subtle as Chibs all but drags him across the club house. If the others notice, they don't let on; too pre-occupied with girls or drink, unable to see or think straight, yet alone process the Scotsman yanking the younger man towards the nearest dark corner.

Juice knows his heartbeat will lose all sense of rhythm at this point, he knows that it'll be pounding inside his chest, desperate to escape his ribcage. He knows that Chibs' grip will loosen around his wrist, that fingertips will ghost fingertips in a silent gesture as the corridor disappears beneath their staggering feet. Juice knows they will never make it far down the hallway. He knows the Scot's patience will run out and suddenly, forcefully push a palm to the centre of Juice's chest and bowl him into the nearest room with a bed, a couch, a floor, a wall. Juice knows they'll both be smiling at this point because this is the highlight of a few drinks in with lads. He knows that whatever garment that's adorning his chest will get ripped to shreds in the heated commotion, that there will be bruises in the morning. He knows that Chibs will run his mouth, drip compliments and proclamations of beauty over Juice's skin. Juice knows he'll believe Chibs, that he'll understand that every word is the truth.

Juice knows that the second Chibs' lips fall against his own he'll forget how to breathe, he knows that for the next however long forming sentences will be a challenge, that few coherent words will make it beyond his tongue.

Juice knows they won't be quiet, they're never quiet. He knows that Chibs will be beyond the point of caring at this point, that any notion of being caught has retreated somewhere into the back of the Scot's mind. Juice knows it's never gentle or slow. It's hard and fast and desperate. Juice knows that sometimes, he'd like it to be different.

Juice knows afterwards he won't want to leave. He'll want to remain wherever they are, floor, couch, closet. He knows he won't want to give up the heat of the other man's skin, the taste of the now lazy kisses. He knows over the past few months, the aftermath has grown longer, that Chibs will grasp for a reason to stay put, to keep his arms entwined around Juice for a few more minutes. Juice knows these minutes have started to rapidly turn to hours. Juice knows that he has to wake the Scot up once he starts snoring, that they need to move in case someone comes looking because Juice knows no one can find out about this.

Juice knows tomorrow Chibs will groan about his hangover, about the mysterious bruises, aches and bite marks that magically appeared on his skin overnight. Chibs will blame one of the girls. He'll blame falling over, he'll blame Juice and say it's the younger man's fault he passed out in the shitter, but he'll look directly at Juice as he speaks. Juice knows Chibs remembers and Juice knows not to talk about it, Juice knows to brush it under the carpet until the Scot inevitably lines up another six scotches.

Juice knows he wants more than this. Juice knows he wants more than an alcohol-fuelled fuck, Juice wants to wake up next to the Scot, to test what they have against the sober light of day because Juice knows they have something, at least he thinks they have something and he's not prepared to let that go.

Juice just doesn't know how to ask.


	2. Chapter 2

Two scotches down and Chibs has already reached several conclusions. Firstly, tonight feels like a night for taking risks. There's a heavy tension in the air that is screaming to be shattered, a thick haze that desperately requires clearing, an itch that is in dire need of being scratched into submission. Maybe it's the weather, maybe there's a storm coming, maybe it's the come down from a rather skittish job or maybe it's just the first time Chibs has had a moment to really think clearly. But either way, the air is filled with a sense of possibility and Chibs is practically suffocating on it.

Secondly, Chibs is not in the mood for drinking. He's lined up the scotch regardless though, because that thing that has recently started becoming a weekly habit always kicks off with four-to-six scotches or tequila or vodka or whatever has a high alcohol content and is closest to hand. Tonight Chibs is secretly hoping it won't take quite that much. Tonight Chibs wants to see what happens without his old pal alcohol, without that dutch courage that started this whole affair. He wants to see what happens when he's in control, when the edge of his vision isn't dancing or blurred, when his words don't slur, when his limbs don't stumble and when the floor doesn't melt.

Thirdly, Juice is looking particularly stunning tonight and tonight it's not the scotch talking; maybe it's the evening light, maybe Juice has showered, but tonight the younger biker looks practically edible. The croweaters fall through the door and it takes a mere blink of the eye for Chibs to determine that none of them are a patch on Juice. They don't have his smile, his eyes, his skin, his jawline, his arms, his scars or that boyish innocence that drives Chibs wild, ergo; these ladies won't be getting any attention from him tonight.

Chibs fourth and final conclusion of the night is Juice is most definitely watching him – has been since Chibs slid onto his bar stool, since Chibs leaned over and carefully lined up the amber shots before him. Juice has been watching Chibs silently throw one shot, two shots down his throat, silently waiting for what inevitably will happen next, for what has been happening for months now. Chibs knows it either has to stop completely or upgrade into something he's not entirely sure he's ready for. He knows that Juice could have put the brakes on long ago, but hasn't. He knows that he, himself could have…should have...didn't…wouldn't, won't.

Chibs launches another shot past his lips, hissing softly at the burn that greets him, that washes down his body and reminds him that he's only human. That's enough for tonight. No more dutch courage, time to grow a pair and see how this goes down without old Jack Daniels whispering in his ear. He licks his lips slowly and deliberately, cracking his neck to the left then right, easing the tension and nerves that seem to have built up at the base of his skull. He twists on the slightly unstable bar stool, his gaze falling upon Juice who is on his third beer and currently desperately avoiding the gaze of the large breasted stripper who has cornered him between the couch and the pool table. Before all this started, before they crossed that clearly defined line between brother and…and…Chibs can't quite bring himself to use the term lover, but it's as close a definition as any- but before that, Chibs might have laughed at the scene before him; chuckled even at the fraught look Juice was currently shooting the over-zealous whore as he attempted to clamber out of the line of fire. But that was then. This was now.

A surge of jealousy ebbs over the Scot's fingertips. His knuckles whitening around the empty shot glass. This thing that has been happening between them, the drunken encounters, the desperate fix, the booze-filled groping and stolen kisses; it's turned into more than that for Chibs. It's twisted and morphed and mutated from nothing to something. It's coiled itself into an addiction, it's passed desire and want and lust, it's turned into need. And it's happened fast; faster than Chibs dared or was willing to admit. But there's always been something about Juice, something just below the surface that Chibs was unable to put his finger on. There was something about the younger man that dis-armed the ex IRA soldier and Chibs had tried to ignore it, honest to god he had, but then Jack, Jose and Jim had got involved and they'd taken a sledge hammer to his self-control. Juice hadn't resisted though. He hadn't planted his fist into Chib's nose or eye or gut, he hadn't pulled back or stopped him, hell it was Juice who'd raked his fingernails down Chibs' back, Juice who'd sunk his teeth into Chibs' lower lip, Juice who'd left that mark just out of sight on Chibs' shoulder…

Juice is a deer caught in headlights as the Scot half-bypasses-half-shoulder-barges the stripper with a gruff "Out the fuckin' way love." Chibs isn't in the mood to watch someone else attempt to molest the guy who won't leave his head, who constantly hovers at the back of his mind, whose taste lingers on his lips. He seizes the younger man's arm and that despairing look on Juice's features relents, confusion taking its place. He's been counting Chibs' shots. "Juicy-boy, need yer help with somethin'" It's not a lie. Chibs tugs hard on Juice's bicep, fighting the shiver that threatens to trickle down his spine in response to the tense muscle underneath his palm. Juice doesn't protest. Chibs' pulse starts to race.

"Yeah, yeah sure." The younger man replies. Ugh, that naive, trusting voice goes straight to Chibs' groin. To others Juice may come off as rather innocent, a bit naïve, a little slow on the social uptake, but Chibs knows that's bullshit. He's heard, felt that mouth in action and it's anything but innocent. Juice is anything but naïve and judging by the slow bob of Juices' adam's apple, he's not too slow on the uptake either.

"What is it man?" In all honesty, Chibs has not thought this through. The sight of the human-blob-come-stripper cornering Juice had short circuited the part of his brain that was responsible for rational thought. He begins to speak, to open his mouth, to come out with some sort of explanation but the words dry up on the tip of his tongue. It's too early to disappear, it's too soon and too risky to have them both leave the party that's hardly started, no one is drunk yet, tipsy maybe, but not drunk, all still too aware of who and what surrounds them. Suspicions will be triggered; questions will be asked..."Chibs?" That's all it takes, his name falling from those lips. Those lips that he can't stop thinking about. That's all it takes to sway the Scot into thinking fuck it, if people ask, they fucking ask.

"Not here." It's an unintentional growl, but that stripper is still within ear shot and if Chibs comes out with all the dirty, relatively sober things he wants to do to the other man there's a chance big tits might blab and right now Chibs does not want to deal with that. He doesn't fancy a night of explanations to his VP about how he couldn't help himself, how Juice mesmerised him, how it wasn't a one- time thing, how it had been deliberate, how he didn't regret it and how he had no intention of stopping.

As Chibs pulls Juice towards the dorm hallway he decides he probably should have had another shot before he started all of this. He's shaking with nerves and apprehension and adrenaline as he rounds the corner towards the dorms, hand still wrapped around Juice's arm. He takes a deep breath, willing the trembling in his fingertips to stop, just for a moment, just so he can concentrate a little, just so he can grasp at some sort of rough plan of what the fuck he's going to do now he has Juice alone and to himself and with no alcohol helping him along.

It takes a heartbeat, if that.

Chibs doesn't give the younger man a second to think, because if Juice has time to think, Chibs has time to think and right now any sort of thought processing is a bad idea. The moment they're out of sight from the others, the second he confirms the hallway is clear, he kisses Juice, crowding him up against the nearest hard surface. His heart stops as Juice fails to respond, maybe he can say he'd had a few drinks before heading to the clubhouse, maybe he can act drunker than he-

Juice's hands are suddenly at Chibs' sides, scratching and clawing and grabbing and pulling at the fabric of his shirt, at his torso, Juice's tongue is swiping at Chibs' lips, Juice is gasping loudly and desperately and bucking and squirming and breathless and the realisation that this actually might have been a good idea dawns on Chibs and the Scot can't help but smile as he silently, happily drowns in the younger man's frantic onslaught.

"You're sober-" Juice's words bring Chibs back into the corridor, back to reality, back to the burning of his lungs, to the pounding of his heart against his ribcage, to the ragged breath ripping from both of their lips. Juice's words cause Chibs to pull back, to search the other man's features for where this was going. "-and-and I'm sober." The younger man murmurs, his gaze refusing to meet the older man's, instead setting a bashful stare on Chibs's collarbone

"Aye," Chibs' fingertips tilt Juice's head up, forcing eye contact. "That a problem?"

Chibs knows that he's dreading the answer, he knows that so much hangs on such a small question. He needs Juice to tell him this is fine, that maybe, this feeling he's got, this feeling that has burrowed into his heart is mutual, that this need he has for Juice is reciprocated; that the next kiss they share will lead to a room with a lock on the door, a bed, the possibility that Chibs won't have to leave until tomorrow afternoon and even then not get out of bed until early evening. Chibs needs to know that Juice feels something, that it's not just Chibs who has trouble crawling back into his own bed after one of their encounters.

Chibs can hear his heartbeat thundering inside his ears, his palms are burning up, his breath shaking.

Juice smiles, he shakes his head, he leans in to catch the older man's lips with his own. Chibs knows the answer.


End file.
